


La Belle Fille sans Merci (The Beautiful Girl Without Mercy)

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock 2
Genre: Anger, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Flash Fic, Gen, Heavy Angst, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Psychological Trauma, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: ca·thar·tickəˈTHärdik/adjective1.providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions; causing catharsis.





	

“...Jesus loves me, this I know...”’

She has always hated the noises they make.

“...For the Bible tells me so...”

Their voices are all ruined, and the awful howling they make grates on her ears like a saw. _God_ , why is she here? Her boot makes contact with a half-melted chunk of debris in a fit of anger, sending it soaring down the crumbling hall. Once she gathers herself she moves along, letting the sound lead her along like a thread. She does not move any faster then she needs to, now. She has spent the better part of a decade waiting- what then, is a few more minutes?

“Little ones to him, belong...”

When she was younger she had pitied them- the splicers. Their burst seams and diseased skin, the way some of them yelled and others argued with nobody about nothing or even worse, just stared, as if they had already drowned and were just waiting for their flesh to rot. Not to mention the way her mother played them against each other with only the slightest push, a master puppeteer who had held her hand and braided her hair and no _no No_ ** _NO_**. Shaking off the thought, Eleanor poured herself into following the hymn, vaulting over rusting girders and sidestepping burst pipes.

“...They are weak but he is strong...”

She can smell him, now. The sugar-sweet tickle of ADAM mingles with the stench of dried sweat and old blood, and she grimaces at the odor. As his misshapen form comes into view she can feel her heart race (with anticipation or fear, she is not sure). As he shambles along, a smear of blue on his lapel catches her eye- one of those _damned_ butterflies. On of her mother's followers, then. A vicious smile curls across her face as she readies herself, joy singing through her veins.

The first slice catches him through the shoulder, shooting out a short spurt of blood- he raises his arms defensively before the red has even slowed, red-hot hooks glowing. His ugly lips twist, slurring out something she ignores, swatting away the hot metal he thrusts at her in defense. Before her eyes, her needle paints him a tapestry of red, weeping stripes on his skin, a joy to watch. Her ~~stomach heaves~~ heart soars when he howls as she callously shreds a tendon, the meat peeling apart like wet paper. Vaguely, she hears him begging, an obnoxious noise under the roar of her pulse. As his feet slide apart clumsily, she takes advantage and slams him to the floor, watching and listening as the impact fractures something and sends him bouncing. _What does she want,_ he gurgles, his one good eye watching her like an animal on the killing floor. Round. Hysterical. She bites back a bubbly giggle. She doesn’t _want_ anything he has.

_Nothing._

She’s not after ADAM.

She’s not after knowledge.

She’s not after redemption, even- unlike that Tenenbaum woman who haunts the halls.

She can’t have her freedom yet, either, so for now?

Eleanor Lamb is out for revenge.

A rough scraping noise interrupts her reverie- the splicer, as mangled and damaged as she has left him, is trying to crawl away. She sees _red_ , feels fury painting the inside of her skull. If she couldn’t escape the pain for years and years and years, why should he? With the indignation burning fresh at the forefront of her thoughts, she pulls back her foot and plows the steel-toe cap of her boot directly into his mouth. A rain of yellowed teeth _plink_ onto the shattered tiles, and she delights in the muffled screams. The spider splicers struggles are minimal, now- disoriented after losing so much blood and most of his teeth, he is reduced to crawling drunkenly.

 _Stop_ , some tiny pathetic part of her whispers, cringing. She grits her teeth and blinks double fast to shake off the doubt. _They_ made her this way. Now was not the time for second doubts.

At her feet, he gurgles pathetically.

Anticipating her victory, she flips him over single handedly and extends her needle, aiming for his heart; imagines it twitching like a broken animal. She can see it now, fluttering through the grimy wife beater, and- and-

The needle wobbles slightly, making patterns in the air. She traces the trembles to its source and notes, almost absently, her hands are shaking. As she brings her hands to her porthole for a better look she realizes her vision is blurring, and before she can remove her helmet she feels a tear slip out, then another and another and another, until the flow is as constant as the seawater leaking through the ceiling. She doesn’t want to cry, but that does little to stop the sob that rips out of her chest.

Her vision kaleidoscopes, swirling the blood and bone and decay into a muddy soup. The urge to give in is strong, to lie down and weep, but years ago she had promised herself that the path to her freedom would be paved by the suffering of her enemies or nothing at all. The memory reignites the anger in her, puts the fire back in her eyes and the steadiness in her hands. Feeling better, she rolls her shoulders with a sigh. That is a promise she intends to keep.

Pushing down the last of the outburst, Eleanor drives the needle home, relishing in the wet noise the metal makes as a it mingles with the final rattle of spliced-up lungs.

When she stands up and kicks the corpse _(not a person anymore, not for a long time, no)_ aside, a nagging specter of guilt weighs on her. She imagines a mountain balanced on her crown, made entirely of her own design. The victory makes it worth it. On the surface, none of this will matter, she reasons. She is _saving_ herself.

 _I Indulge. Nothing else exists,_ she thinks to herself. It will become her mantra.

By the time she finds the second believer, the guilt has shrunken to a boulder.

By the third, it fits in her palm.

By the fourth, a marble.

By the fifth, Eleanor Lamb feels nothing at all.


End file.
